


Rented White Dress

by lesbianophelia



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, No Games AU, originally written for S2SL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:58:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4046932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianophelia/pseuds/lesbianophelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Back home, everything is so much simpler. A woman usually rents a white dress that's been worn hundreds of times. The man wears something clean that's not mining clothes. They fill out some forms at the Justice Buildings and are assigned a house. Family and friends gather for a meal or bit of cake, if it can be afforded. Even if it can't, there's always a traditional song we sing as the new couple crosses the threshold of their new home. And we have our own little ceremony, where they make their first fire, toast a bit of bread, and share it. Maybe it's old-fashioned, but no one really feels married in District 12 until after the toasting." -- Catching Fire, Chapter Seventeen. </p><p>(Or, an AU where Everlark gets to have a toasting with a rented white dress, their loved ones, and no Games)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rented White Dress

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for S2SL. Thanks to Gentlemama for handholding. Be gentle with me.

She knows his knock well, by now. The soft cadence. The way that it sounds hesitant, even when he’s sure that Katniss will answer. Five knocks, first, in quick succession. And then another two. She’s learned, by now, that it’s an old tune that he picked up from his father. Shave and a haircut, two bits.

But she didn’t know it when she heard it for the first time. When she had let her mother and sister fuss over her and wrap her up in a patched blanket on the couch. Her job, according to them, was to recover from a cold and staring at the fire. Prim had been the one to answer the door. No doubt expecting for it to be a new charge. A patient. Someone who needed help of some sort. But Prim was laughing in the other room, so Katniss knew it was nothing serious. Still, she had no idea what to expect when Prim called out to her. “Katniss! You have a visitor!”

A visitor? Katniss frowned, straightening up a little. She pushed the blanket down to rest on her legs and pulled at her braid to the front of her shoulder. A weak attempt to look more presentable. Just in case. Who could it be? A peacekeeper wouldn't have reason to come looking for her. It'd been two weeks since she's gone under the fence.  And they couldn't make Prim laugh.

She wasn't surprised that it wasn't a peacekeeper. But she had been surprised that it was, of all people, Peeta Mellark.

Prim went into the kitchen, an attempt to offer them some privacy. A weak one, but the best they could afford in their little Seam home.

“Hey,” Peeta said, looking about as uncomfortable as she was. Though, there was a little smile on his lips. “I’m glad to see that everything is okay. I was getting a little worried, to be honest.”

Okay? Why wouldn’t it be okay? “What?” she asked.

“It’s just been a while since I’ve seen you, is all.” Peeta said.

“I caught a cold,” she explained. “Has Gale not been bringing the game by?”

Peeta shook his head, bangs flopping from one side to the other. “No. He hasn’t. But, ah, that’s not why I stopped by. I just wanted to check up on you. I suppose I’m becoming dependant on you Everdeen girls. I’m so lost without my squirrels and my goat cheese.”

“Prim!” she called. “Get that goat cheese out of the icebox!” Peeta’s eyes widened, and he went to protest, but she wouldn’t hear it. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any squirrels to offer. But I tried to remind her to bring the cheese by.”

“Oh! No! That’s not what I meant at all. And, um, well, not why I stopped by. I just wanted to give you this,” he stepped forward, moving a little bit closer, and handed over two white bakery bags. “Just . . . an incentive, I suppose? For you to come back. Gotta keep my favorite hunter around.”

“I’ll tell Gale to stop by next time he’s out,” she said. “He must have just forgotten . . . he’s just been so busy with the baby.”

Peeta raised his eyebrows. “That’s not what I meant, Katniss. You’re . . . you would be my favorite hunter, even if there were others who traded with me.”

Prim came back in before Katniss could wonder what that meant, handing over a neatly wrapped piece of goat cheese, wrapped shut with a piece of string. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I meant to come by. And I have the milk. It’s just in there. And I know we haven’t traded much, but . . . if you had wanted to check it out . . .”

He smiled at her, something about it so warm that it disarmed Katniss just about as much as it did Prim. “I would love to,” he assured her. “You are my favorite goat cheese dealer.”

That had thrown Katniss. Had made her wonder if everyone was his favorite something, depending on who he was talking to. She opened the bags to have something to focus on. One had the loaf of bread they trade for when she has squirrels, and the other stuffed to the brim with, of all things, cheese buns.

“I don't have anything to trade,” she had protested.

He shook his head. “It's not a trade”

**  
**  


Her mother and sister tried to convince him to stay for dinner, but he said he had to get home. And then, very softly, he told Katniss that he hoped he would see her again soon.

He did. She brought every squirrel she could find to the bakery, hoping she could talk him into accepting them as payment for the bread he brought the last week. She told him not to pay, and he gave her a look. So maybe he wasn’t lying.

She didn’t find the bread in her bag until she got home. And though Prim tried to talk her down, she was furious. Because she didn’t want his charity. She didn’t need it. So she stormed out to the bakery, ready to pick a fight, and rather than finding him smirking and looking triumphant for successfully lying to her, she found him wiping at the counter out front, muttering to himself. The bell attached to the door alerted him to her presence and he flushed bright red at the sight of her.

She walked up to the counter, white bakery bread bag in hand. “I didn’t want this,” she said. “I was paying you back. For the other stuff.”

His mouth opened and closed a few times. “And I paid you back for the squirrels,” he said. “It would be unfair of me to take those squirrels without paying for them.”

He looked so earnest. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “So, we’re even,” he decided for her. “No more of this. Agreed?”

She couldn’t very well turn down a chance to be even with Peeta Mellark.

**  
**  


When he asked her out, it was as soon as he opened the door that next time. He smiled at her, and then all the words left his mouth in one breathless rush, words sticking together. “Could I take you out sometime?”

She didn’t know how to respond, at first. Didn’t know if it was a joke or if he thought she was the marrying type. She had no idea of much of anything. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” he assured her, his voice quiet.

His knock was the same when he came to pick her up that first time. And it’s the same tonight, when she’s lying in bed, trying and failing to sleep. A smile stretches across her face before she can stop it, and she half expects for Prim to sit up from where she’s fast asleep in her mother’s bed. To say that Katniss can’t see him under any circumstances. But she’s just snoring away, and Katniss is grateful that they decided she ought to have the bed to herself for beauty sleep tonight. Because she’s able to sneak out undetected.

She opens the door to find Peeta waiting there, one hand clasped over his eyes and the other cradling a covered dish against his chest.

“What are you doing?” she asks, laughing.

“I’m not looking,” he says. It’s tradition – an old superstition, really – for the groom and the bride to not be allowed to see each other before the wedding for fear of bad luck. Only, she hasn’t seen Peeta in days, and she can tell that he’s not able to stay away any longer than he already has. “I just . . . I brought breakfast. For you and your family for tomorrow. I couldn’t sleep – and I missed you.”

She smiles. “Well, if you came all the way out here, then you may as well look.”

He gives her a grateful laugh, peeling his hand away from over his eyes. “Oh, I hoped you’d say that.”

“It’s your fault. We could have been together tonight if you hadn’t been so bent on keeping us apart,” she jokes. It hasn’t been his fault, exactly. He’s been busy with the bakery. Both working there and cleaning the apartment above it. She asked to help more than once, but he assured her that it was something he should do on his own. She considers letting him inside but then remembers the rented white dress hanging on a hook on the wall and steps outside to join him.

“Lots to do for the big day,” he says. “Which you must understand.” He reaches out and touches a strand of her hair, reminding her of the rags that she let Prim tie into her hair in preparation for tomorrow. He looks so blissfully happy that she can't bring herself to swat his hand away and joke about how touching may not be allowed. How they’re breaking the rules already, just by letting him look. “I like it,” he says.

“That's cause they're not in your hair,” she returns, moving her head from side to side as if the rags weigh her head down. He laughs, sitting on the stoop, and she joins him.

“I missed you, too, by the way,” she says.

“We’re going to be married tomorrow,” he reminds her, a giddy smile on his face as he leans forehead against hers. “No one can keep us apart then.”

“No one,” she agrees. “Not even you and your obsession with the bakery.”

“Obsession?” he protests. “Yeah. Okay.  I’ve been busy. But tomorrow, Katniss. We’ll be married tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she agrees, a funny little shiver running through her at the words. She kisses him and he returns it instantly, his hands coming to her hair. They’re used to this. Good at it, even. It’s as familiar as the pattern of his knock became after he started to take her out on dates. She remembers those dates. Remembers starting in Town and slowly but surely touring the entire district. She had been the first to show him her happy place. She didn’t call it that, but he knew, as soon as he got over his hesitation to slip under the fence – and maybe even before – that the woods were something special and important to her.

And he had been so adorable, reveling in all the colors that fall day, turning around and giving her an incredulous little laugh when she asked if he liked it. Well, she couldn’t help herself but to grab him by the shirt and kiss him. And they had kissed before – plenty of times – but this was different. So different that, when she forced herself to pull away, she couldn’t focus on his joke about the day getting better and better. She couldn’t focus on anything other than his lips. Or the memory of his mouth opening under hers. Of his lips, soft and pliant and --

“Can we do that again?” she asked, interrupting him. And he just tangled his fingers in her braid and kissed her until she could barely remember her own name.

**  
**  


They didn’t get around to the hike she planned on taking him to. Just kissed like that, again and again, until his lips were swollen and her hair was a mess. And again, in front of her house that night. In fact, Prim thought that she was out much later than she really was – Peeta has always been very responsible about getting her back at a respectful hour. And he did, that night. But then they spent the rest of the evening sitting on the stoop and kissing.

Just like tonight. The door opens and they spring apart like a couple of teenagers at the slag heap.

“You’re keeping my sister up the night before her wedding,” Prim says, a challenge in her voice. “I mean, let’s not even mention the bad luck, seeing her today. She needs her rest.”

“It’s not the wedding day yet,” Katniss says, and laces her fingers with Peeta’s.

“It’s past midnight,” Prim returns.

Peeta laughs. “Oh. Okay. I probably should get back to the bakery, then,” he says. “Let you get some sleep.”

“She can’t keep us apart tomorrow,” Katniss says, ignoring her sister’s protests. And then, so quickly that no one can convince her it’s not the best idea she’s had all night, she leans forward and kisses him, very softly.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees, smiling. “Goodnight, Katniss Everdeen.”

She can’t help the silly grin that blooms on her face when she realizes that next time he tells her goodnight, she’ll be Katniss Mellark, and he’ll wake up beside her the next morning. “I love you,” she says.

“I love you, too,” he says.

. . .

She remembers the day that he showed her his happy place. How surprised she had been when he brought her to Town. The first time, he had asked where she wanted to go and they ended up in the meadow. But this time, he said he had something to show her, and then he had reached out – very hesitantly – for her hand to lead her to it. She didn’t understand why, exactly, but then she realized that it was so that she wouldn’t get confused. Or separated from him. He didn’t just take her to Town. He took her to a tree. There were a few trees in and around Town and the Seam. And there was nothing particularly special about this one. It wasn’t particularly tall, but it wasn’t small, either.

“This is my favorite place,” he had informed her.

“Your favorite place?” she echoed.

“I come here when I need to think. See, this side,” he walked around the tree for emphasis and tapped at the trunk, motioning to bring attention to the way that it faced the Square. “It’s great for people watching. But then the other side –”

“Faces the school,” she finishes for him. “The back of the school.”

He nods. “Perfect for when I wanna be alone.”

She headed for the backside of the tree, but he sat in the front.

“Is this okay?” he asks. “Or would you rather go somewhere else?”

“I’m just – surprised. That you’d take me here.”

“Katniss.” His voice was serious. Not the light, joking tone she was becoming so used to. But not angry, either. Not exactly. “I want to take you everywhere,” he assured her. “As long as your comfortable.”

She sat down beside him, her back pressing against the trunk of the tree. “Okay. I’m comfortable.”

. . .

“Oh, Katniss,” her mother says, stepping back to take a good look at her. “You look so beautiful.”

                                                

And nothing like myself, she wants to quip, but she doesn’t. She does look beautiful. The dress that they rented is nicer than anything she’s ever worn before – knee length and white, with lace on the top, scalloped. The sleeves keep wanting to fall off of her shoulders, though Prim has tucked the fabric into itself dozens of times. There are fasteners down the front, made with matching white fabric around the heads of the buttons. Her stomach does funny little somersaults when she imagines Peeta undoing them.

“Mom?” she asks, her voice small.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Is it too late – could you put flowers in my hair?”

Her hair is up, already. Pinned up, section by section, hair held tightly against her scalp in wide, flat curls.

“Flowers?” Prim echoes. “What kind of flowers?”

“Dandelions.”

“Those aren’t really wedding flowers,” her mother says. Katniss hasn’t been allowed to wear her hair in a braid today, though. And she’s just about had it with tradition.

“I want dandelions. Peeta will know why.”

“Did you talk about that during your little rendezvous last night?” Prim asks.

“Prim!” Katniss cries. Her mother just arches a knowing eyebrow.

“You thought we wouldn’t notice? A bride sneaking out of her room at midnight can only mean a couple of things. And, well, we didn’t think you were getting cold feet.”

“I wasn’t. My feet are . . .” She’s not sure how that sentence was supposed to end. “No cold feet,” she assures.

“We know,” Prim says. “Anyone paying attention knows you wouldn’t back out on this – on him – now.”

“So, can I have my dandelions now?”

“Yes. Prim, go pick some.”

“I can – just let me change out of the dress.”

“No way,” Mrs. Everdeen says sternly. “You sit down. You think we’re finished so soon? You haven't even out your stockings on.”

The moment Prim leaves the house, Katniss gets a talk about intimacy. The words her mother uses are dry and clinical. Yet still unbearably uncomfortable. “I’m assuming you two are in no hurry to conceive – not that I would say no to the chance to be a grandmother. There are certain precautions that you ought to take, as a married couple.”

“Mom, Prim will be back soon.”

“I know. I’ll be brief,” Mrs. Mellark says. Then she details the different forms of contraception, and Katniss is pretty sure her cheeks are bright red by the time she’s finished.

“Just . . . be safe,” her mother says at the end, reaching out to give Katniss’ shoulder a little squeeze. “Make sure that you’re on the same page when you –”

“Is this enough?” Prim asks, mercifully interrupting the conversation when she comes in, door banging shut behind  her.

“That’s perfect, Little Duck,” Katniss says. “Thank you.”

Prim nods, handing the weeds to their mother.

**  
**  


She ties the orange ribbon herself, standing in the bathroom and watching her fingers in the mirror as she loops it around her dress and pulls it into a pretty bow. She double knots it, even though she’s not sure why. Maybe she’s been spending too much time around Peeta.

The hair will be a surprise for him, at least. The old pillowcase Prim wasted didn't put curls into her hair so much as a few frizzy waves. Her mother went another route, brushing it until it was soft to the touch and then pinning it up and twisting it, so tightly that it hurts. And that was why she insisted on buying the ribbon, after all. As a surprise for Peeta. Something special.

It’s worth it, when she sees him at the Justice Building. He’s surrounded by his brothers and his father – but then whatever it was what he was trying to say gets cut off. Dies in his throat. And he stares at her. Really stares. Like he’s never seen her before in his life but he’s wanted to.

**  
**  


“Katniss,” he breathes once she's a little bit closer. And she flashes to him looking at her this same way when they sat under his tree and the sunlight broke through the clouds. “Katniss.”

Is that all he can say?

He looks good. Dressed in a white button up shirt that she swears she recognizes from their first date – when he picked her up at her house, a clump of dandelions in hand, serving well enough as flowers. There's a coat, too. Patched and mended in a few obvious places but still nice. And his hair. It's combed and styled, but not to the point of ruining those curls of his. The waves in his hair he knows she loves so much.

“You are so beautiful,” he says, eyes falling to her boots. Her father’s boots, actually. But it felt right, wearing them today. “So beautiful.”

She smiles, holding her hand out for him. “Do you want to –?”

“Yes.”

They head into the Justice Building that way, families trailing behind them and watching as they fill out their marriage license and seal the bond with a kiss.

There are more people waiting outside. People who will follow them to their new home – her new home. Peeta's old home. Above the bakery. Merchants and Seam Folk, all mixed in together. Gale, Madge, Delly Cartwright. Hazelle even brought the kids. It seems that all of their friends have shown up, and they're all so happy for Katniss and Peeta that Peeta's grin threatens to split his face in two.

“Should we head home, wife?” he asks quietly. It's unreal, how her new title effects her. How her knees buckle and then threaten to give out completely. It's not the same as when he referred to her as his fiancée. Not that giddy excitement, but something more. Something deeper. He steadies her with a hand at the small of her back. Warm and strong and right, melding against her body perfectly.

“Yes,” she agrees. “I think we should head home.”

**  
**  


The bakery is closed this afternoon. The only two people in the District qualified to run it are at the wedding. His brothers couldn’t shut their shops down, but they could leave their wives in charge while they headed for the toasting. It’s a good thing, Katniss thinks, Peeta’s in-laws not coming. While their friends and immediate family have been supportive, she knows more than a couple of people have informed him of just how disappointed his mother would be, was she still alive.

 

“I still would have married you,” Peeta informed her when it happened in front of her. “If she was -- If it meant moving to the Seam. Or the woods. Or anywhere. I’d still pick you.”

She holds his hand tightly while they cross the Square and head for the bakery. He unlocks the door in the back -- the one that leads directly to a staircase that will bring them up to the apartment above the bakery. He doesn’t let go of her hand, but he insists that she go ahead of him. When she protests, he slips the key into her hand and gives her a tiny kiss. That leaves her no real choice. There’s no point in walking behind him if she’s the one who has to open the door.

“You’ve done wonders with the place, I expect,” she murmurs. That’s the only good excuse he’ll have for not inviting her to come by in so long.

“Mm,” he says noncommittally, and then he scoops her up as soon as her feet touch the landing, carrying her over the threshold. She gapes up at him, and he shrugs, jostling her just a little bit.

Somewhere down the line of guests following them up the stairs, the toasting song starts. Prim, maybe. Or Peeta’s father. She doesn’t know. And it doesn’t really matter, because soon everyone is singing. Even Katniss. She must have anticipated the look in his eyes. The way his mouth opened and closed. It’s like he can’t comprehend what’s happening. “I was a goner,” he had said once, telling her about the first time he heard her sing. And it was obvious before, just how far gone he is, but she still feels proud.

                              

There's a blanket in front of the fireplace. Folded into what she thinks may be fifths. He sets her down on it, and she moves forward, so she's kneeling beside him. He hands her a couple of split logs, so that she can put them in the fireplace.

He's a whiz with fire. It takes no time at all for him to get it going. But then he realizes that forgot the bread in the kitchen and leaps to his feet. “I'll be right back.”

She only remembers that they have an audience when the others laugh.

**  
**  


Thick, hearty bread, with nuts and raisins in it. That's what they decided on. Just like the first time he fed her. It's wrapped with white paper, and he carries it out so carefully, handing over. She gives him a smile and it’s as if all the tension melts from him instantly. “Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey,” she whispers back. “Ready?”

He nods. “I can't remember a time when the answer to that would have been no.”

**  
**  


The chunk of bread he pulls off is more than generous. As with everything he's ever given her. She watches his hand intently while he toasts the bread for her. His hand must be getting hot, so close to the flames. Then, when he's satisfied with his toasted bread, he tilts her head towards him with a gentle hand on her face. She leans into it.

“I love you so much,” he whispers. “So much. I don’t know that I’m ever going to be able to tell you . . .” he trails off, his thumb gently caressing the skin of her cheek. She might close her eyes and bask in the feeling of it all if she didn’t want to commit his face in this moment to memory. He clears his throat. “Katniss. I am so glad that you are my wife. You are so lovely. So brave, and kind, and strong. And gorgeous. And I love you so much. I am so beyond grateful for the chance to be the one who gets to tell you that for the rest of my life.” His eyes are filled with tears, now. And so are hers. “Um . . . I want – I want to make you cheese buns. And raisin nut bread. Every time you want it.”

That makes her laugh, but it's a strange, breathy thing.

“I love you. I loved you yesterday, I love you today, and I'll love you for – always.”

Always. The traditional line is forever, and Peeta knows that. But he also knows just what it takes to turn Katniss into a wreck.

He holds the bread to her lips, and she takes it gratefully, whispering a little thank you.

**  
**  


It's silent while she toasts his bread. Just like he did with her, she places a hand on his face, thumb brushing his cheek, but he's already staring at her.

“Peeta,” she begins. “I love you. I loved you yesterday, I love you today, and I'll love you for always.”

He gives her a tiny laugh.

“I wonder how many times you're going to save me, sometimes,” she continues. “From myself, mostly. From – from being lonely. Even when I didn't realize that I was. You are the gentlest, most patient . . .” she can’t finish her sentence. The tears are flowing, now, and if she was really thinking about it, she might be embarrassed about crying in front of everyone. But then -- all that matters is her husband, who is staring at her like she is the moon and the stars and though she wants to pull the shades down and kick everyone out so she can focus on this moment the way she needs to, she can’t. “I love you. I love you, I love you,” she informs him, her voice quiet.

The moment she sees his tongue dart out to wet his lips, she leans towards him and kisses him. She doesn’t want to stop kissing him, exactly. But then she hears a whoop from somewhere behind her, and Peeta laughs when she jumps away.

“We’re married, Katniss,” he says. She thinks that he’s going to make some kind of comment about how now she’s allowed to kiss him whenever she feels like it. No matter who’s around. But that’s the end of that sentence. We’re married, Katniss.

“We’re married,” she agrees, another funny little shiver running through her. When she kisses him again, she doesn’t care that they have guests. They’re married. She’s kissing her husband. And though everything is the same, it’s different at the same time. New and exciting and electric.

**  
**  


Their cake is beautiful. Classic white, with all sorts of different wildflowers cascading down it. She swears she sees a couple of dandelions in the mix. The frosting flowers, rather than being hard, like she expected, melt in her mouth. Her eyes flutter shut at the forkful Peeta feeds her, and when she chances a glance at him, he looks pleased with himself. “Is this what you were doing all this time?” she asks.

He gives her a sheepish little smile.

“I love it,” she assures him, lifting the fork to his mouth. “It’s incredible.”

“Then yes,” he jokes.

The rest of the reception goes off without incident, though Katniss is slightly anxious for their guests to leave by the time they start to file out. Peeta makes small talk with everyone, thanking them for coming, but keeps his hand on Katniss’ back, just as he did in the Square.

**  
**  


She kisses him when they’re alone, and then takes her boots off and excuses herself to the restroom so that she can freshen up. Once she’s alone, she stands and stares at her reflection for a long moment.  The white dress is too big. Threatening to slip off of her shoulder and expose her. It ends at an uncomfortable length midway down her shins – it would be much shorter on a merchant girl.

Only, she is a merchant girl, now. With an orange ribbon tied around her middle, looped into a pretty bow. And with her husband – the one who she wore the ribbon for in the first place, not to mention the dress – waiting just outside for her to finish freshening up. She’s not sure, though, now that she’s used the bathroom and washed her face, what she’s supposed to do. Maybe she ought to take the dress off. Maybe she ought to come out in the frilly underthings she’s wearing for the occasion. Or pull on the robe that hangs on the back of the bathroom door, red plaid and worn and tattered, but clearly something that holds sentimental value to him.

Other women tread these waters so easily, but she doesn’t have the slightest idea of how to act sexy for her husband. All she can think of as she dabs cool water on her already slightly flushed face is how much money this dress cost. What a waste it would be to take it off so soon after their company has left. Maybe it’s an old habit. But her sister will be by in the morning to pick the dress up and return it, and she can’t help but to think she should spend as much time as she can in it.

And that’s not even to mention the way he had looked at her this afternoon, when they met at the Justice Building and he had looked for all the world as if she had stolen all the air from his lungs.

**  
**  


He’s waiting in the kitchen when she comes out, clearly pleased that she left the dress on. He gives her a warm smile. “Good to see you, Mrs. Mellark,” he says. “I thought you were taking the dress off.”

She shakes her head. Looks down at the floor. “No. I thought . . . you might like to do that.”

His mouth drops open. “Yes. Yes, I would. Just – we shouldn’t, right this moment. Cheese buns are baking as we speak.”

“Cheese buns?” she echoes, bending down to look through the little window in his oven -- their oven. It’s hers now, too. That’s a strange thought, considering how long it’s been since she’s even been in the apartment above the bakery that’s her new home. “What did I do to deserve cheese buns?”

He laughs. “Oh, come on. Like you’re surprised.”

“You planned on this?” she asks.

He clearly didn’t make them while she was gone -- she wasn’t gone half that long. And his clothes are clean, completely clear of flour. “Since the day I learned how much you like them,” he assures her, giving her a little kiss. They’ve been married for a couple of hours, now, and she’s already losing count of how many kisses he’s given her since they signed the forms. “But I put the dough together last night when I couldn’t sleep.”

“Before or after you came to my house?”

“After.”

She smiles. “Can you help me get these pins out of my hair?” she asks. “They’re way too tight. It hurts.”

“Well, that’s no good,” he says. “Come here.”

She turns so her back is to him and feels his fingertips glide across the intricate hairstyle her mother put in this morning. He plucks the dandelions free first and lays them on the counter. “Did I tell you how much I love your flowers?” he asks.

She nods, smiling. “Once or twice,” she says. He finally locates the first pin and the section of hair it was holding against her scalp falls loose. She sighs in approval, and he plucks a few more out. “Thank you,” she says. Either for freeing her hair or for liking her dandelions. She’s not sure which.

“Better?” he asks. She leans back a little further in reply, the back of her head pressing into his palms.

“Much better,” she agrees.

Spurred on by her approval, he begins to work much more diligently, running his fingers through her hair as he brings it down bit by bit. Brushing it off to the side and kissing at her neck, turning her to putty even if it does tickle, the combination of his hands and his lips and her hair. She finds herself angling her head further to the side to allow him access. His lips brush against a place that makes her sigh, the sound surprisingly greedy as she tries to find the right words to keep him from stopping. “Peeta,” she starts. He pulls back but -- thankfully -- not all the way. She can feel his breath tickling at her neck, sweet and warm. Would he still taste of the frosting from the wedding cake he so painstakingly decorated for her if she were to turn around and kiss him? Will he taste of it later?

“Yes?” he asks.

“I like that,” she says, pressing up on her tiptoes, pressing the skin of her shoulder back as close to his lips as she can get it. His hands wrap around her middle, as if steadying her, and then -- so gently -- he helps to lower her to the balls of her feet. Then he starts to kiss her again. He's kissed her neck before. At least, she thinks he has. But it wasn't like this.

Nothing has been like this. She hums, not a song, exactly, but a low groan that he must know means yes. This. More. Please.

“That sound.” He presses a kiss to the hollow just below her ear. “I don't know how I ever lived without it,” he informs her, voice low. There's no one around. No one to disturb. No one to overhear, but there's just something about hearing his voice like that . . . so low. And completely for her benefit. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, you know,” he continues, pulling back a little bit and letting go of her. Going back to her hair. Right. Her hair. She must look ridiculous with it half up and half down like this. “I put the chicken in the oven. There are cheese buns baking. I don’t think it would be wise of us to get . . . distracted.”

“Distracted?” she asks, trying to look at him over her shoulder. “We’re married. I thought we were supposed to get distracted.”

He laughs. “Yes, we are. But later. But not while I know you’re waiting on dinner.”

“. . . not really,” she protests, though she knows she’s being petulant. She can smell the chicken cooking, now. She dropped it off a few days ago, kissing him on the cheek and pushing the game bag into his arms with a request for him to make something for their wedding night. “You didn’t have to start it right away.”

His voice drops a little lower. Somewhat closer to whisper. “Oh, Katniss. Do you honestly think the only thing I’m planning on putting in your belly tonight is a bite of bread and a piece of cake?” he asks, and as if for emphasis, his hand brushes across her stomach, making the muscles contract just slightly. Oh. She can’t exactly explain why the words send a funny little shiver through her. But then he’s going back to work, as if he hasn’t said a thing.

“Besides,” he continues, planting another light kiss somewhere high on her neck. “Maybe I’m waiting on dinner,” he says. “You’re not the only one who needs to get their strength up for tonight.”

Her cheeks must be cherry red. “Oh,” she says. “Well . . . I suppose I can, wait, then.”

He hums, as if mulling this over, and then frees the last section of her hair. Rather than stepping back, though, he just plays with the fine hair at the nape of her neck. “Did that help?” he asks, apparently not noticing the goosebumps that bloom up and down her arms.

“What?”

“Your scalp,” he clarifies. “You said it was sore.”

“Right. Yes. It’s better. I just . . . got distracted.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “I thought we had an agreement . . . something about waiting until after dinner . . .”

She laughs before she can help herself. “You are ridiculous,” she informs him. He laughs.

“You love me.”

“I do,” she agrees, backing up to stand against him, so she can press her head against his chest. “I love you.”

**  
**  


He pulls her seat out for her before he gets back to work on dinner, and she turns around in it, watching him. “How was your day?” he asks. “Before -- well, just in general, I suppose.”

“It was good,” she says. And then, without even thinking about it, she launches into the story about the dandelions. About how confused her mother was. He laughs.

“You didn’t tell her?”

She shakes her head. She’s kept the bread a secret from everyone – other than Peeta, of course – for years. It’s too late to really talk about it now. “But, now that you mention it, there is something she wanted me to tell you.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” he asks, taking the cheese buns out and checking to see if they’re finished. She manages to make him blush when she mentions what her mother took the time to inform her about. “My brothers gave me a pretty hard go of it, too.”

“About what?” she asks.

He looks sheepish. Either from the passed on conversation about protection or from the memory of whatever it was his brothers said. A combination of the two, most likely. “That depends. Do you really want to know?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “You may not be able to make eye contact with them again.”

Oh. “Probably not,” she says, and he laughs.

“I thought you might change your answer.” So instead, he tells her all about his morning while he cuts the chicken and brings it to the table. She hears about the bakery -- it was open for half a day today. That’s the only way he could justify closing it tomorrow.

He tells her about how Mrs. Donner snapped at him over a miscounted bag of rolls and how he’s sure he looked terrible, but he caught sight of the time -- just a few minutes until closing -- and grinned in the middle of the apology.

**  
**  


She doesn’t want to admit it, exactly, but she’s glad she didn’t talk him out of having dinner. Once she starts to tuck into her meal, she realizes just how hungry she is. The meal is luxurious, really. The chicken cooked and seasoned so perfectly that she decides right away that the next one she brings home will be for Peeta. Or, for her. Since she’s who Peeta will be cooking for, now.

**  
**  


She sits so close to him that their arms brush on every pass. They steal kisses between bites, and Peeta, though his eyebrows are raised just slightly, doesn’t say I told you so when she admits to being hungrier than she thought she was.

She’s not sure what she expected.

Well, maybe she expected for them to head into the bedroom and have their way with each other as soon as the guests were gone. But this -- this feels normal. Really normal. Like one of the other dinners they’ve had together, but without anyone else at the table. It’s nice. She gets more stories about the bakery and about the time he spent working on their cake and in exchange tells him all about how Prim nearly cried with happiness at the sight of her.

“I can see that,” Peeta says. “I almost did, too. You look . . . you look really beautiful today.”

“Even without my fancy hairstyle?” she jokes, running a hand through her hair. “I tried to convince them to let me braid it -- or come up with some kind of fancy braid. But they thought I needed to look traditional.”

“I can see that,” he says. “I was just talking to my brother the other day, and he said ‘Peeta, can you describe your fiancée in one word?’ and I said ‘oh, that’s easy. Traditional.’”

She laughs. “I told them you’d like it better in a braid. Or even just down --”

“Wait. That’s not what I said,” he says. “I like your hair. I . . . I really like your hair. It doesn’t matter what you do with it.”

She looks down at the cheese bun in her hand. “You never did tell me what I did to deserve cheese buns,” she reminds him.

“You didn’t realize that by becoming Mrs. Katniss Mellark you signed yourself up for a lifetime supply?” he asks. “Wow. I really didn’t tell you what you were getting yourself into, did I?” he asks, and then, before she can respond, reaches over and tears a chunk off of her cheese bun.

“You undersold the deal,” she chides, shaking her head. “Aren’t you always telling me not to do that?”

**  
**  
  


After the dishes have been finished -- he refuses to let her help, for fear of getting dirty dishwater on her dress, but she helps clear the table and wash it down -- he brings a covered plate over from where he’s hidden it on top of the icebox.

“Here,” he says. “For you. Well. For us to share.”

“What is it?” she asks, drawing in a breath when she uncovers it. It’s a piece of their wedding cake. Maybe the best piece of all, if there was one. It all had an assortment of wildflowers cascading down the layers, but the piece that he saved for them has mostly dandelions. “Oh,” she breathes.

“It’s probably silly. But -- well. It doesn’t seem right for the baker’s wife to not get more than a bite of her own wedding cake.”

“Not silly,” she assures him. They gave each other forkfuls of the cake, but then they were instantly tossed into socializing with everyone at the party. She thought the cake was gone. He saved a piece, though. “You’re sweet.”

He smiles, bumping her shoulder with his. “My brother didn’t get the dandelions, you know. Wondered why I didn’t think you would want real flowers. But I knew.”

“You knew,” she agrees, and just like earlier that day, when she gets the first bite on her fork, she lifts it to Peeta’s lips. They share the whole piece this way -- it’s fluffy and rich and light all at once. And her eyes flutter shut at the taste of it. When it’s gone -- and she’s scraped all the extra frosting from the plate with her fingertip, she stands up.

**  
**  


“I . . . I think I’m  . . . do you want to . . .? she tilts her head towards the bedroom, and he scrambles to his feet.

“Yes. I -- do you want to?” he asks. “Because --”

“I do,” she assures him.

**  
**  


It’s stark quiet in the bedroom for a long moment. Peeta lingers by the doorway, hands hanging uselessly at his sides. She’s nearly to the bed already, and though she knows it’s silly, she can’t help the pang of confusion that rips through her at the way he’s hanging back.

So she closes the distance between them before she can convince herself that his hesitance is because he doesn’t want this, and she kisses him. His arms go around her instantly, the touch anchoring her as she stretches up onto her toes to kiss him – just the same as he did in the kitchen, when he was behind her. Only now they’re a frenzied tangle of lips, pushed so closely together that it’s nearly impossible to remember what her body feels like when it isn’t pressed against his. His hand sneaks up to rake through her hair – as if he didn’t touch it enough before – and in return, she grabs at his shoulders, pulling him somehow closer. She’s not sure how long they stay like that. But by the time they separate, she's out of breath and they're on the bed. She's lying on top of him. Pinning him down so easily he must not want to get up.

Only, her stockings catch on his toes, and suddenly she’s struck by the need to get them off. So she rolls away and sits up, moving to tug at them, only stopping when she feels Peeta's hand on her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asks, as if it’s not obvious.

“I, um, don’t really like these,” she says. “I want to take them off.”

“Can I help?” he asks. She’s only just finished nodding before he moves. And she's confused when he kneels at the foot of the bed, but then he holds his arms out, beckoning her to come a little closer. She gets the hint, coming to sit with her legs over the side of the bed, just in front of where he's kneeling. And his eyes are flitting all over, as if trying to take in as much of what he's seeing as possible. She flushes hotly when she realizes how immodest this position is. Considers what's right at his eye level. She's just thinking about crossing her legs when his hand rests on her ankle. Touching softly. She points her toes towards him and he smiles. And then, rather than reaching for the tops of the stockings to pull them off the way she would, he starts at her feet. Makes small little tugging motions on first one leg, and then the other. Bunching the pantyhose up until he can tug it down, inch by inch. Her skin pebbles as it's exposed to the air. And to the feeling of his hands on her newly bare legs and oh.

She’s not sure what he’s doing. What he’s tracing on her legs. Lines and squiggles and shapes. Maybe even letters. Words? She can’t tell. Doesn't care. It makes her shiver, and she can’t bring herself to ask what he's doing, in case that makes him stop. She doesn’t want him to stop. Maybe ever. His hands climb up to her calves, warm and soft and large. But they stop there, even though she wants desperately for him to move higher. She sighs.

“Is that . . .? Does it feel good?” he ask nervously. As if he hasn’t known since he started ghosting his fingertips across her legs that it would make her feel good. Surely he’s not so focused on her skin for his own enjoyment. And yet the simple question is enough to send her reeling. It’s such a reminder of how very new this – all of this – is for him, too.

“Yes,” she says. “It feels . . . it feels very good. You’re silly,” she affectionately. He shrugs, his fingertips dancing playfully up to her kneecaps, where he pauses.

“Do you – could I . . .?”

“Yes.”

He takes his time, working his way up to her thighs, which are more sensitive than she expected them to be -- and mapping that area out with his hands.

“Peeta,” she says, his name coming out as more of a sigh than anything. “You should come back up here,” she decides. As if the thought of him stopping this lovely teasing is bearable for even a moment. “You can't be comfortable down there.”

“I would kneel on hot coals, Katniss,” he assures her, voice low and sincere and serious, even with his smile. “Just to hear you say my name like that.”

Her mouth drops open on reflex. “Oh. Well. That's . . . If you'd prefer . . . Carry on, then.”

But then his fingertips dance around the scalloped edge of her panties and she can't help the little gasp she gives. He freezes instantly, as if he can't tell that her reaction was a good one. Then he rocks back to sit on his shins, hands gliding back down to the safety zone of her calves, and she can see his hesitance. He's probably just barely holding back an apology.

“Felt good,” she assures him, nudging him with her foot. “Did you want to keep going?”

Something like relief washes over his features. “Yes. Always.”

Eventually, though, she just can’t take it anymore. She reaches down and puts her hands on his arms, fingers finding mostly skin but also the rolled up end of his sleeve, where he's pushed it back to his forearms.

“Too good,” she says before he can doubt himself. “I think it's time to lose the dress. Will you –? Do you want to help me out with that, too?”

“Absolutely,” he says, standing up and taking her hand. “Come here.”

She stands to join him, but suddenly, the prospect of being completely bare in front of Peeta comes into clear focus. She looks down at his shirt and reaches her free hand forward, toying with the button on his shirt.

“Would you mind – can I take your shirt off?” she asks. “I don’t – I don’t want to be the only one . . .”

It sounds silly. Makes her feel immature. As if he’s not about to see everything. But he gives her a reassuring smile and nods.

“Of course. However you'd like me.”

There's a funny little hot pinch in her belly at the words that she never felt before she and Peeta started spending time together.

He lets his hands rest at his side. She focuses on his even breathing and tries to match here to it. Revels in the smell of his skin, like cinnamon and dill. She works slowly. Diligent as she undoes each button. Running her fingers over each piece of newly exposed skin. It's his turn to shiver. Especially when she pushes the shoulders back and he shakes his arms loose, letting it fall to the ground.

She stares at him for a long moment. He's soft. Not entirely, but she can't count his ribs. His shoulders are broad and he carries himself well without his shirt, but he's staring right back at Katniss, and she can't help but wonder if he's nervous.

“Okay,” she says. “I think. We're even enough, now. Go ahead and . . . you know.”

He nods, reaching for the orange ribbon. There’s something about the look in his eyes when he unties the bow that makes her sigh. “I thought about this all day,” he admits somewhat shyly. As if they’re not preparing for what they both know is coming next. “Untying this, I mean. I’m gonna make a guess that they didn’t include the ribbon with your dress?”

She shakes her head. “It was -- it’s for you. Since. You know. You’ve seen this dress a thousand times, probably. You’ve brought cakes to so many toastings. But I wanted it to be special.”

“Special,” he echoes, and she shrugs, the sleeve of her dress falling. “You’re so perfect,” he announces, moving forward so that his fingertips can ghost over the exposed patch of skin. She shudders, not sure if it’s from the words or the touch. “Do you even know?” he asks. “You do this every time.” He kisses her collarbone and she sighs, head falling back as she sort of hopes he'll move up. Kiss her neck the way he did earlier.

“What do I do?”

“Every time I think I know exactly how perfect you are, you do something else and it sends me reeling.” He brings his hand to the other sleeve. “Is this okay?”

She nods. The dress pools at her feet, and Peeta’s gasp is audible. She swallows hard. Looks down at the hand that hovers just above her bare shoulder.

“Is this okay?” he asks gently.  “Are you . . .?”

“Yes,” she assures him, nearly bursting with the anticipation of it all. “Please.”

And then he's backing her onto the bed and his hands are on her and oh, those hands of his.  Such warm, large inconsistencies. So calloused – scarred from years of work and burns at the bakery – and yet so soft, so gentle as they work their way up and down her bare thighs. Eager and yet patient. Accepting only what she offers freely but enjoying it so thoroughly.

She lies back and he hums a little in the back of his throat.

“You are so beautiful,” he informs her.

She’s barely paying any attention to what he’s saying. Just shifts her hips a little bit. And as soon as he realizes what she’s offering, he accepts that, too. Gently. Methodically. And yet with a vigor the likes of which she doesn’t know that she’s ever seen. Even with Peeta. She’s acutely aware of his eyes on her. And it feels like he’s taking her apart. With gentle touches. He repeats what makes her gasp, working slowly, meticulously. And by the time he’s finished, he’s completely taken her apart.

“Fuck, Katniss,” he murmurs.

Somewhere, dimly, she wonders whether she’s ever heard him swear before. But then, nothing before this moment is really easy to recall. “Fuck,” she agrees, her voice quiet. “Come here, Peeta.”

**  
**  


It’s interesting, the way he keeps looking at her. From the moment she gets to work taking his pants to when he ends up hovering over the top of her, weight supported on his knees on either side of her, and his hands brushing her hair away from her eyes. “Are you okay?” he asks.

And in answer, she pulls him down and kisses him. “Absolutely. Are you?” she asks, because she is okay. More okay than she had thought that she would be. She’s heard enough horror stories, after all. About women who weren’t ready and husbands who weren’t patient enough to wait.

But Peeta -- well, she knew that he would be gentle. And though it takes some adjusting to, it’s worth it if just to see the look in his eyes. Or the little tiny sighs and groans that keep escaping him, and it’s as if he’s trying to hold them back in his mission to make she's she's okay.

That’s not even to mention the way he’s saying her name. Like it’s something completely different. Something reverent and beautiful. And then he’s whispering about how much he loves her. How she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. How incredible everything feels, his voice somehow both convinced and also wavering at the same time.

And it’s as clear in the erratic rhythm of his hips as it is in the fingertips that brush her hair from her eyes. In the whispered adoration that falls from his lips. He loves her. He loves her, he loves her, he loves her. And suddenly, her favorite sounds in the world are the ones that he makes while he approaches the precipice he’s pushed her off of. And then, on top of everything, his hands are there again. His hands. Coaxing her back up as he leaves a trail of sloppy kisses across her collarbone and her throat.

He doesn’t know how he lived without the noises she makes? Katniss doesn’t know how she lived without his hands. Without his touch. Without that careful way that he studies her, even after she assumes he’s finished for the evening, fingertips dragging across her skin, just to elicit that humming, moaning sound that he loves so much.

And after, when he rolls off onto his side, there’s something in the way that he’s watching her. And she knows how much he loves her already, but she can see it. Can feel it, when he pulls the blanket around them both.

“I love you, Mrs. Mellark,” he tells her, voice already thick with sleepiness.

"I love you, too, Mr. Mellark," she returns, resting her head on his chest and listening to his heart. This, she decides, is her new happy place. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm feministpeeta on tumblr :)


End file.
